


sandbox ambivalence never dies

by samarqand



Series: small Makalaurë stories [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Extended Metaphors, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Post-War of Wrath, coastal cryptid Maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samarqand/pseuds/samarqand
Summary: Celegorm visits Maglor one early morning in what might be Eldamar.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: small Makalaurë stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084430
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	sandbox ambivalence never dies

**Author's Note:**

> Warm-up writing from tumblr. Apologies for the introducing the notion that Maglor might not love dogs.

Maglor rose while his brothers slept, peace for company.

It was simpler in the small, silvering hours to devote himself to tending notes on the lute till they flourished, jasmine upon the rippling vine. It was simpler in these hours to indulge in ruminating upon what he should sing to the morning silence — one step ahead of the chaos of his brothers, their sparring, negotiating, debating, shouting.

From the comforting cool of the wash basin's water, he conjured an impromptu aubade. The birdsong outside set its tune: let the melody commence timorously, but with hope. A romantic pull underneath. 

Briefly, he spared a moment to stroke his fingers along his lute’s coupled courses; how devoted they were to one another.

Then he gathered his clothing, stepped around the dressing screen to change from his nightwear, and found Celegorm crouched there in wait. 

He faltered half a step backward. Celegorm grinned to see it.

Maglor glanced to his chamber door — latch still set — and to the window — yes, the window regretfully left flung open. “What do you need, Tyelko?”

“Come hunting with me,” Celegorm said.

“I would rather not smell like a horse before I’ve picked my first strings.”

Familiar disdain cracked its way through Celegorm’s handsome smile. “Who cares?”

“Not you, well I know,” Maglor murmured, hefting his clothing in one arm and pulling aside the screen to free Celegorm from his corner.

“Are you still sore I borrowed your tuning key?” Celegorm wondered, unmoving.

“To lob at my head while I debuted my new lay to Father?” Maglor asked stiffly. “Never, dear brother.”

Celegorm rolled his eyes. “I was only thinking of your welfare,” he contended. “That _monotony_ you endure: naught but strings and singing. And all that mawkish praise heaped upon you from your public.” He shook his head. “Tepid enough to burn.”

“You presume to steal into my chambers that you may tell me my passion bores you,” Maglor interpreted for him, slighted.

Celegorm’s customary smile returned, with a sharpened edge now. “You are wandering through some dream's idyll, and it doesn’t end, does it, Káno? You are stuck. Come feel something.”

Maglor regarded Celegorm for a moment before kneeling to meet him, close enough to his brother that his knees brushed upon the hilt of a dagger. “What is it you feel that you are inviting me to feel?” he asked, skeptical but, when Celegorm stared him down, compelled to wonder.

Celegorm cocked his head. His honed gaze alighted on a place just beyond. “The feeling of movement, winged and pitched to places unknown. There they are, suddenly open to you for just that moment before they fly past. It's a feeling that steals away your chance to doubt, leaving you light -- your breath turned to naught but air. It’s a lonely sprint, but then it’s vast with promise. It’s painful. It’s free.”

His offer careened toward a seduction, and for a moment, Maglor asked himself, _Why don’t I_. But he already knew why not, already was supplying the answer: “I have responsibilities, Tyelko.”

“I am giving you a way out of them.”

“I should not like to think of you in pain,” Maglor changed the subject.

“There are far worse things to be than in pain, brother.”

“Nor should poor Huan like to see you so, I imagine,” Maglor continued, smoothing at his nightshirt.

“Why do you hate Huan?” Celegorm accused him abruptly.

Maglor breathed a laugh. “I do not hate Huan.”

“You take your leave whenever he’s about. Like you cannot abide another moment with him,” Celegorm asserted.

“Huan’s unbridled zeal and my harp do not get along," he gently reminded him. “I must be attentive of it; you know how his tail sweeps.” 

And Maglor smiled to think of it: Celegorm and his winning grin, and Huan’s tail wagging violently. “You make him very happy, Tyelko.”

“Maybe once I did,” Celegorm grunted, thin disinterest a shroud to hide bitter loss.

“Oh,” Maglor began and ended, out of tune. Huan had forsaken Celegorm, yes. When? 

Yes, Huan had left with -- 

A headache, uncommon sensation, clawed at the back of his head. He gathered his hair over a shoulder.

“What a rare treat to see you looking so honest,” Celegorm observed. “The sea salt in your hair curling it like vines.”

Maglor unseeingly began to plait his hair, recalling his schedule. There was a fête asking his performance that day, small enough it must have slipped his mind: an Essecilmë celebration, or was it an anniversary of some description? His jewelry was dutifully laid out on the desk, and he had fallen asleep mumbling something trite and indecisive to Maedhros as they sprawled on Maglor’s bed, a map crumpling between them — _Better to choose gold bangles to shine warmly, or the silver for intrigue_ —

“What do you need, Tyelko?” Maglor asked, voice distant to his own ears now.

Celegorm reached for Maglor’s hand, guided it to the dagger’s hilt — the intimate intrusion between them. Gently, Maglor tugged. Celegorm’s breath caught, turned to naught but air. He tugged. Tugged. The dagger slipped out from between Celegorm’s ribs. Blood poured after in sympathy, dark and hot. 

Maglor let the weapon clatter dispassionately to the floor. He moved to wipe his bloodied hand on his nightshirt: worried dumbly over the stain it would leave, and the questions.

“Keep it,” Celegorm declared at the sight of him red-handed. “It looks good on you. We are so alike in our proclivities.”

Maglor slid his wet hand against the floor, a compulsion to rid himself of his brother’s pain.

Celegorm watched him with amusement. “You look as wretched as I.”

\-- The bellow of Oromë’s horn.

Celegorm’s gaze flickered toward the sky outside, open and wild. Called to it. 

Painstakingly, he dragged himself, with legs mangled, blood guttering fresh down his tunic, to Maglor’s door.

Maglor rose and swept past the sheening wake of Celegorm’s viscera. He lifted the latch and opened the door for him.

“Knock next time,” he told Celegorm.

“Perhaps,” Celegorm replied, "if you tell me you will be waiting.” He smiled his quicksilver smile. Assessing him. “Will you wait for me?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “I have always been here, waiting for you to return for me.”

And he blinks back to the glinting sand, the roiling waves.

The sight of tan and grey, ash and pebble, blur as he sinks to lie against the sand, a lover’s face nearing before the kiss.

He presses himself against the expanse of shoreline, body flush against the ungiving ground, wondering how much closer he can get. How much longer he can wait.

He slowly taps his blackened fingers against the earth. He calls out to those he has loved in a flutey whisper. 

The plea vanishes with the next surge of sea. 

Begging, Return for me.


End file.
